


Some Sunny Day

by longleggedgit



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 15:36:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longleggedgit/pseuds/longleggedgit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just when Merlin is ready to give up on a second chance with Arthur and make a fresh start, Arthur starts to notice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Sunny Day

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Team Reincarnation at merlin_games 2012 on LJ. So much heartfelt thanks to my betas and Britpickers, without whom this would be a much cruddier fic indeed. Based on the prompt: "You don't realize how much you care about someone until they don't care about you."

Merlin gets flashes of the old Arthur with startling regularity, but they're especially vivid on days like this, with the sun shining hot and Merlin watching from the sidelines as Arthur kicks a football around with his knights.

 _Not knights_ , Merlin reminds himself. But Gwaine and Elyan and Percival don't look so different in football socks, and when it's this hot out the lines always start to blur a bit.

"Water, Merlin!" Arthur yells, wiping off his face and throwing the sweat-soaked towel on Merlin's head.

Merlin tries not to breathe too deeply as he pulls it off. "Yes, Sire," he says, standing to grab a water bottle, and luckily Arthur's breathless laugh means he thinks it's a joke.

 

He used to think Arthur remembered everything, too, when they first found each other in secondary school and Merlin almost tripped over himself in excitement. It made it harder, then, when Arthur not only joined the ranks of Merlin's tormenters but started to lead them, and his mother was beside herself when he would come home biting back tears but refuse to let her do anything about it.

"If you'd just let me speak to your teacher, Merlin—" 

"Don't," Merlin said. "You can't."

"It helped when that Rogers boy was writing on your locker," she reminded him. 

"Arthur's different," Merlin mumbled. She never understood, but quietly helped Merlin cover up the insults scrawled on his notebook with masking tape.

The hardest part was never being able to hate Arthur, no matter how hard he tried, even though he remembered hating him Before, for a little while at least. Every time Arthur knocked Merlin's books to the ground or loudly mocked his skinny legs in PE, Merlin blinked away a flash of Arthur's hand on his back, Arthur's forehead against his. There was anger there, but love, too, overwhelming and far too much for an eleven-year-old to comprehend. The love was what made him cry most nights, more than anger, more than _QUEER_ printed across his trainers in permanent marker.

When Gwen transferred in in year nine, Merlin tried but immediately failed to dislike her. She was pretty and smart and confident, in a way that startled him as much as it impressed him. Merlin didn't know if he'd ever met a thirteen-year-old as confident as her; even Arthur's posturing reeked of insecurity, but nothing Gwen said or did ever felt dishonest.

"Careful, Merlin," Arthur said one morning, and Merlin turned reluctantly, just in time for Arthur to shoulder him into the lockers, jarring Merlin into dropping his books. "You're walking on the wrong side of the corridor again."

Merlin didn't say anything but stooped down to scoop up his things. Today he was reminded of another time Arthur had said _"Careful, Merlin,"_ pressed him to a tree and kissed him like it would be the last time. He couldn't help his face burning with the memory even when Arthur stepped on Merlin's hand and pressed down, hard enough that he couldn't jerk away.

"What's this, then?" came Gwen's voice from behind Merlin. Arthur's foot relaxed and Merlin grabbed his hand to his chest and craned around to look. Her eyes were trained on Arthur like he was an insect, and she looked lovely, even then; Merlin could never deny that she was lovely.

Neither could Arthur. "What?" Arthur snapped, defensive, his face coloring. "I was just talking to my friend Merlin. Wasn't I?"

Merlin quickly looked down again and nodded, once, feeling Gwen's eyes on the back of his neck.

"Good," Gwen said. "If he's your friend, then you can help him with his things."

Arthur froze, surrounded by his real friends, and Merlin wished more than ever that he still retained some hint of the magic he knew he had once, so he could make himself sink into the floor and vanish. It seemed so pointless, being reborn with all these memories but nothing that was good or right from the first time around; no magic, no Arthur, not really. "It's fine," he said quietly, starting to stack his books. "I dropped them."

"Help your friend with his things," Gwen repeated.

There was silence for seconds that dragged like minutes. When Arthur dropped down to his haunches and brushed Merlin's hand away impatiently, gathering his books for him, his face was at least as red as Merlin's, and the crowd of boys behind him laughed and crowed.

"No harm done, mate," Arthur said, through gritted teeth. Merlin's heart leapt into his throat and he couldn't speak, but he nodded again, and they both stood. Arthur presented his books, holding on for an uncomfortable moment longer than necessary. When he finally let go, Merlin stumbled backward, nearly into Gwen. His friends laughed.

"You're pathetic," Gwen said, and Merlin was sure she meant him until he glanced at her sideways and saw her eyes still fixed on Arthur. 

"Whatever," Arthur growled, but it was the first time Merlin had ever seen him look so rankled. 

Gwen sat at Merlin and Will's table at lunch that day, their first lunchtime companion in two years.

"You don't want to do this," Merlin warned her quickly. "They'll never talk to you again."

"Who?" Gwen said. "Arthur Pendragon and his idiot friends? Who cares."

Merlin couldn't help but smile at that, because Gwen's smile brought its own flashes with it, and he had always loved her as well, in his own way, in spite of everything. When he looked across the room, he saw Arthur staring at her like she was already a queen, and Merlin knew in that moment, with crystal clarity, that this time wasn't going to be any different from the last.

 

It's a busy Friday night in their favorite pub and Merlin is happily buzzing with his favorite level of intoxication: drunk enough to be cheerful and at ease but still more sober than his friends, so he can ridicule them for the things they won't remember later. 

"Merlin," Gwaine croons, draping himself across Merlin's shoulders and burying his face in the crook of his neck. "Merlin, Merlin, I love you. Why don't you love me back? Run away with me, Merlin."

"Gerroff me," Merlin says, laughing as he ineffectually shoves at Gwaine's shoulders, which are about twice as broad as his own.

"It's Friday night," Percy sighs. "Gwaine's turned gay for Merlin again."

Arthur, Elyan and Gwen laugh but Gwaine just moans like he's in pain. "I'll never touch another woman again, Merlin, I swear!"

"You've never touched a woman anyway," Elyan says, and Gwaine kicks him but doesn't stop trying to make out with Merlin's neck.

Arthur, his arm around Gwen's shoulders and a put-upon look on his face, says, "Stop molesting my best mate, would you? I'm going to be sick and I haven't even had a full pint yet."

"You stay out of it," Gwaine says, abandoning Merlin's neck to glare at Arthur. "It's your fault he keeps rejecting me, anyway, since he's too busy wasting his life hopelessly in love with your sorry arse to pay attention to anyone else."

The table falls quiet and Merlin takes the opportunity, heart racing and ears burning, to shove Gwaine off of him. "I'll get another round, shall I?" Merlin says, and he doesn't wait for anyone's assent before squirming out of the booth, half-crawling over Percy's lap, and escaping to the bar.

"Nice," he hears Gwen say sharply, and the accompanying _Oof_ must be Gwaine when she smacks him across the chest. "Have some tact, would you?"

It's busy at the bar so Merlin has to wait behind a queue of people to get his order in, rocking on the balls of his feet and trying to swallow down his humiliation along with the flashes that always accompany the words _Arthur_ and _love_ , snippets at random of late mornings in Arthur's chambers and overnight hunting trips. Arthur had a way of curling his fingers into the hair at the back of Merlin's neck in his quiet, unguarded moments, and Merlin rubs the back of his neck now, breathing shaky and deep.

Someone turns around and Merlin, tripping over feet in the crowd, runs straight into his chest. "Sorry," Merlin says. Then, looking up, "Oh!" 

It's Lancelot's face that greets him, familiar and handsome, somewhat younger than Merlin remembers but otherwise the same. Merlin stands too close, wide-eyed and blinking, for so long that Lancelot frowns and tilts his head. 

"Hello," he says. "Do I—"

"Sorry," Merlin interrupts, coming to his senses. "Thought you were—someone else." It's hard to remember, when another character from Before drops abruptly into Merlin's life, that they won't recognize him like he does them. "Six pints of Newcastle, please," Merlin says, leaning over the bar so he can be heard. When a few seconds pass and Lancelot doesn't move, Merlin hesitantly faces him again.

"Hi," Lancelot says with a crooked smile, offering a hand. "I'm Lance."

"Oh!" Merlin says again, struggling to unfold his arms and shake Lancelot's—Lance's—hand, so close that it proves a difficult task to accomplish. "Right. Merlin! Hello."

"It's funny," Lance says, "but you looked familiar to me at first, too."

No one has ever, in 19 years, given Merlin even the barest hint of recollection. He can't help the grin that splits his face, even though it's coincidental at best; it feels like validation that he's not crazy, which Merlin desperately needs some days. It emboldens him, too. If this is Lancelot, after all, isn't he meant to be one of the knights? Some of his fondest memories that aren't centered around Arthur are centered around Lancelot: the warm, comforting feeling of being able to share a secret with someone trustworthy.

"Are you alone?" Merlin asks.

"Afraid so." The bartender interrupts them to pass Merlin his round and take Lance's order, after which Lance continues, "I just transferred here Monday. Haven't quite found my footing yet."

"You can join us, me and my mates, if you want? We're just over there," Merlin offers, pointing. He notices with some surprise that Arthur is watching them with a curious expression on his face, like he's vaguely annoyed.

"Cheers," Lance says. "If it won't be an imposition." 

"Course not!" Merlin says. "Anyway, I could, er, use a hand with the beer." Lance obliges, and as Merlin leads the way back to their table through the crowd his embarrassment feels lessened, distracted. 

"Everyone, this is Lance," Merlin says, after they've set their pints down on the table. "Lance, everyone." 

Lance, Merlin does not fail to notice, is letting his gaze linger just a shade too long on Gwen. Merlin feels a tickle of worry, but brushes it away; if Arthur is going to fall for Gwen in this lifetime, then it only makes sense that Lance is at least going to check her out, and there's nothing Merlin can do about any of it.

After introductions, everyone shifts over in the booth to make room. It's a bit snug but Merlin feels pleased and comfortable pressed against Lance's side, like another piece of his life-puzzle has been fitted together.

"What're you studying, then, Lance?" Gwen asks politely. 

"International relations," Lance says. Everyone nods politely, until Lance happens to add, "I'll be joining the football team, too."

The group roars. "No way!" Arthur leans forward and slaps his hand on the table. "You've just met half the team!"

Everyone bombards Lance with questions and excitement and repeated handshakes and back clapping and Merlin listens, content and buzzing, proud of being proactive in his fate for once.

 

Football practice is brutal on Monday, perhaps as a way of welcoming the team's new recruit. Merlin feels exhausted just watching and is quicker than usual with his water duties, lining up bottles in neat rows and handing them off one by one.

"My hero, Merlin," Gwaine says, emptying one bottle on his head and taking a second to gulp down. "I'm still waiting for you to run away with me."

"Wait until the season's over, at least," Elyan grunts from behind him, but he too claps Merlin on the shoulder gratefully.

"Thanks," Lance says when he reaches the table, nearly draining his bottle in one go.

"Sure," Merlin says, a stupid smile crossing his face; he keeps forgetting for a moment that he's found Lance and then being reminded with a pleasant jolt that he doesn't just exist in memory anymore.

"All right, Merlin?" Arthur appears before him and Merlin starts, grabbing the nearest bottle and thrusting it forward. 

"All right," Merlin says. He falls silent as he watches Arthur drink and feels uncomfortable suddenly, oddly aware of Lance's lingering presence beside him. 

"Water's warm, Merlin," Arthur says once he's caught his breath. "Why don't you try taking them out of the ice box once break starts instead of leaving them to sit in the sun for half an hour?"

"You can take out your own water if you're so particular," Merlin says with false haughtiness, and Arthur shakes his head and wanders back toward the pitch, muttering about having him replaced.

"You two've known each other long?" Lance asks, making Merlin jump a little. 

"Er. Yeah." Merlin takes one of the bottles for himself and keeps his eyes fixed on Arthur, who's snuck up behind Percy and put him in a headlock while Tristan and Gareth look on and laugh. "Since secondary school. We're best mates, actually."

Lance nods and seems to be watching Arthur, too, although his brow is creased and his mouth is drawn in a frown. "How'd that happen?" When Merlin blinks at him, dumbfounded, Lance elaborates, "You two becoming best mates, I mean. You seem very different."

Merlin forces a laugh and looks down at his empty water. "Yeah. He used to be a real prat, actually. Tormented me all the way through year nine, but Gwen really shaped him up."

Lance turns toward the benches and Merlin follows his gaze to where Gwen is sitting, studying out of a textbook and intermittently chatting with Elyan's girlfriend.

"They've been together that long?" 

"Oh, no," Merlin says. "They didn't get together until uni, actually—towards the end of last year. But we've all been mates since we were kids. Gwen's great. Arthur'd probably still be making my life miserable if she hadn't brought him around." He regrets the words the moment they escape him, but thankfully Lance doesn't comment, just sips his water until the coach hollers and the team starts to gather.

"Thanks again for the water," Lance says, and he tosses his empty bottle into the bin before jogging back into the fold.

 

On Tuesday night, Arthur barges into Merlin's room at 11:45 without knocking and collapses onto his bed with a dramatic sigh.

"That's it, I'm dropping out," Arthur says. Merlin scoots over to allow Arthur more room on the mattress and doesn't look up from his laptop. 

"Mmm," he grunts.

"I mean it," Arthur says, rolling onto his stomach to pout at Merlin. "You don't understand what it's like, trying to balance football and studying. I'm drowning."

Merlin snaps his eyes shut and shakes away a flash—Arthur, soaked and gasping, wrapped in Merlin's arms as he drags him out of a lake—before biting out a response. "Right. Because I'm not at every football practice, same as you." 

"That's not the _same_ ," Arthur says. "It's not like you're actually _doing_ anything. You could study if you really wanted to. You just like watching all those tight little footballer bums too much."

"Shut up," Merlin says, smacking him over the head with a folder. 

"I only speak the truth, Merlin."

"Did you come in here for any reason other than to prevent me from finishing my neurology assignment?" Merlin takes off his reading glasses and feels his mouth go dry when Arthur again rolls onto his back and grins at him upside-down. 

"Not really," he says. "You look like such a dork when you wear your glasses."

"So I've been told," Merlin sighs. He saves his current document and closes his laptop, lowering it to the floor. "Want to have a game of Mario Kart?"

They sit shoulder-to-shoulder on the floor and try to jostle one another into driving off the track for the next hour, Arthur finally giving up after his fourth consecutive loss and tossing his steering wheel across the room. 

"Hey, Merlin," he says, as Merlin crawls forward to turn off the Wii, "you aren't still sore at me about secondary school, are you?"

"What?" Merlin sits back down at Arthur's side and frowns. "Why are you bringing that up all of a sudden?"

"Because Lance was drilling me about it after practice today! Christ, you'd think he never took the Mickey out of someone in his entire life, he's so serious."

Merlin feels his shoulders go tense but tries to act casual. "Why was he asking about that?"

"I don't know, do I? And Gwen was there, and she told him the story about the pudding in your trainers—which was funny, even you have to admit that was funny, Merlin—and I looked like the world's greatest prat!"

"You are the world's greatest prat," Merlin says, standing up and throwing a pillow at Arthur, who sputters and throws it right back. "Get out of here, I have to get some sleep for my exam tomorrow."

"Such a dork," Arthur says, by way of bidding him goodnight, and he closes the door just in time to deflect Merlin's second pillow assault.

Merlin dreams about Lancelot that night, burning in his grave on the water, drifting out of sight as Merlin hugs his knees on the shore. He wakes up and can't remember, for the first time in ages, if Arthur turned up in his dreams at all.

 

"Want to have a drink with me after practice?" Lance asks on Thursday. Merlin fumbles with the bottle in his hands and it drops to the grass, to the jeers of several impatient footballers.

"We don't have all day, Merlin, come on!"

"Piss off!" Merlin says, denting the next two bottles on purpose when he slams them down on the table. Everyone laughs; the footballers seem to find it endlessly amusing when they incite Merlin to curse. He turns back to Lance, who's on the other side of the table with his own bottle, watching Merlin with an inscrutably neutral expression. "A drink? Tonight?" Merlin asks.

"Sorry, you're probably busy," Lance says. 

"No!" Merlin can't look anywhere other than at his hands as he digs through the ice box, but he's strangely elated at the prospect. "No, I can have a drink! Just—just you and me, you mean? Or is everyone going out?"

Lance smiles, and Merlin wonders why he never reflected on how lovely that smile was before now. "I was thinking just you and me."

"Great! There's a place not far from here with cheap whisky on Thursdays?"

Lance lifts his water in a toast and finishes it off. "I'll find you after practice," he says, before heading back to the field.

Merlin stares after him, perplexed but stupidly happy. He doesn't realize he's forgotten about the water until someone clears his throat behind him.

"What was all that about?" Arthur is watching him with a raised eyebrow. 

"Don't know what you mean," Merlin replies coolly, ignoring Arthur's glare when he hands him a bottle.

"You shouldn't shirk your duties. I can have you sacked, you know."

Merlin shrugs. "I'm only here for the tight bums anyway, remember? I can watch those from the benches."

The coach yells before Arthur can formulate a proper response, and it pleases Merlin to no end to watch him jog off flustered and annoyed.

Practice ends around seven and Merlin waits for Lance on the benches, trying to focus on studying but struggling to actually take in any of the words. He's only turned one page by the time Lance approaches, hair damp and sweet-smelling from the showers, a duffel bag over his shoulder.

"Lead the way," Lance says, and Merlin does, almost as if they're on a quest. He loves those memories especially, all the knights and Merlin on horses passing through the woods, teasing each other and bobbing in and out of patches of sunlight. 

"First round's on me," Lance says once they're seated in a corner of the pub, and Merlin allows it with minimal protest. They each swallow down a shot of some whisky Merlin's never heard of, which he nearly chokes on when Lance says, apropos of nothing, "What made you forgive Arthur? For being so horrible to you in school?"

Merlin boggles at him, clearing his throat as he pounds his own chest and struggling to recall if Before Lancelot was quite this off-putting all the time. Lance just watches him with keen eyes, and once he's collected himself Merlin manages, "I—I dunno, exactly. He has a way about him. Makes it hard to hate him."

Lance frowns like it's a wrong answer, and Merlin hastens to explain himself.

"It's not as pathetic as all that. We really are mates now, you know. He's been a good friend to me, once he grew up a bit."

"How so?" 

The manner of Lance's asking makes Merlin feel as if a lot is weighing on his response, so it embarrasses him a little when the first thing that comes out of his mouth is, "He got me a scholarship here, for one."

There's a brief moment where Lance doesn't acknowledge the words, doesn't move in any way, and then his mouth relaxes into a smile. "Well, that is generous."

"He's done plenty more than that," Merlin adds in a rush. "But his dad's the vice-chancellor, so he, y'know. Talked me up a bit." He smiles guiltily. "Might've exaggerated my good marks to an extent."

Lance tsks in mock disapproval and they both laugh, Merlin turning his glass round and round in his fingers. "He helped me figure out a degree, too—I'd no idea what I wanted to study, or—"

"What are you studying?" Lance interrupts.

"Physiotherapy," Merlin says. "I thought, you know—this way I can help out at club practices, and if Arthur keeps playing I could—" he cuts himself off abruptly, and even though Lance doesn't say anything, Merlin flushes anyway. "I've always liked football," he finishes lamely.

Lance just nods, then flags down the bartender. "Two more of the same, please."

They don't talk about Arthur for the rest of the evening, and Merlin feels himself relax into the conversation in increments. Lance's questions about Arthur are always so pointed they feel like an accusation, but even if they weren't, it's surprisingly nice to talk about himself and leave Arthur out of it for a change. Most of his friends are footballers or footballers' girlfriends, and it seems like conversations always inevitably return to Arthur, either his game or stories about his youth, which Merlin willingly volunteers but can't help but resent. Secondary school was in some ways the hardest time in either of his lives he can remember, obsessing quietly over the gentle Arthur of his dreams while hiding from the cruel Arthur of his school days.

It's after one when they finally emerge from the pub, both a little unsteady on their feet but bubbly with conversation and amused at everything.

"I still can't believe you prefer DS9 to TNG," Merlin slurs, shaking his head in disapproval. 

"I don't think I've ever met anyone who speaks in abbreviations as much as you," Lance marvels. "I can't even remember what that stands for anymore."

Merlin laughs harder than strictly necessary and takes care not to trip over the curb as they make their way toward campus.

"Merlin," Lance says after a beat, "I—have no idea how to get to my halls from here." 

This makes Merlin laugh even harder, until he's wiping tears from his eyes. "I'll escort you, Sir Lancelot," he assures him, patting him on the shoulder but retracting his hand when Lance freezes.

"What?"

Merlin continues walking even though Lance has stopped, because obviously Lance just believes he's speaking nonsense, but still it feels like he's been caught in a lie. "Nothing," Merlin says, with a shrug he hopes is casual. "S'just a nickname I've made up for you. Just now."

They walk the rest of the way to Lance's halls in silence, Merlin tense and coming down off the high of the evening, wondering if he's ruined everything already.

"It's just funny," Lance says once they arrive at the back entrance, digging in his pocket for his key. "That's my full name, only I never tell anyone."

Merlin wants to swallow his own tongue. _Stupid, stupid_ , he thinks. It's been a long time since he made a slip-up that big. "Oh," is the only thing he can say.

"Oh," Lance agrees, and then suddenly Merlin is having a heart attack, because Lance is pressing his back to the brick wall and kissing him without any warning at all.

Lance is careful and relatively chaste about it, cupping Merlin's face in both hands and gently sucking at his bottom lip, breathing slow and deep like he's savoring it. Merlin can't move for so long he worries he's lost control of his motor functions, but they come back to him with a jolt and he finally lifts his hands, resting them on Lance's shoulders. His heart is racing so fast he feels on the verge of a panic attack, but he's not sure he wants it to stop. He should be focusing on the kiss itself but bizarrely his brain is working like mad, struggling to sort through his memories and explain this; surely there's something he forgot, some hushed moment in the woods alone with Lancelot that he's been neglecting all this time. But at length the past becomes too foggy to grasp at and he digs his heels firmly into the present, letting slip a little gasp of regret when Lance chooses just then to break the kiss.

"Don't sell yourself short, Merlin," Lance says, his voice hushed, and he brushes his thumbs across Merlin's cheekbones before backing off and pressing his key to the reader, disappearing into the halls like he didn't just do something world-shifting.

Merlin makes it back to his own halls without recalling the journey there, and barely blinks an eye when he opens the door to his room and Arthur is there, playing Wii by himself.

"Where the hell have you been?" Arthur says, falsely accusatory, but his face goes serious when he catches sight of Merlin. "Bloody hell, what's wrong with you?"

When Merlin forces his eyes to focus on Arthur's face, he gets a flash, jarringly vivid, of Arthur's wedding. It's a scene he's replayed over and over again in his head, but for the first time in memory, instead of making him sad, it makes him angry.

"I was just out drinking with some mates," he says, noncommittal. 

Arthur laughs, infuriatingly. "What mates? You haven't got any mates other than me and Gwen and the team."

"I've got plenty of mates," Merlin snaps. "Where is Gwen, anyway? Shouldn't you be in her room at two in the morning instead of mine?"

Arthur goes still and scowly, in that way he has when he's hurt but trying to pretend to be above it all. "God, you're such a bitch when you're drunk. I'll leave you to wank off in peace, then."

Merlin doesn't look as Arthur slams the door, but he does continue to watch the Arthur in his head, climbing onto Merlin's bed the night after his wedding, drunk and apologetic and whispering _I'm sorry, I'm sorry_ as he presses their foreheads together and breathes.

 

The next day, Merlin can barely keep himself rooted in the present. He only just wakes up in time to stumble to his exercise therapy class—he'd been up until some ungodly hour trying to make sense of the evening—and might as well not have shown up at all, for all that he pays attention. Then it's neurology, which he follows about as well as exercise therapy. He has a brief break in the afternoon between the end of classes and the start of football, and when he stumbles into Gwen completely by chance outside Albion Hall he grabs onto her like a lifeline. 

"Gwen!" he says. "Please tell me you're not doing anything important right now."

"I was just going to get some reading done in a coffee shop—are you all right, Merlin? You look like you've seen a ghost!"

 _I've been seeing ghosts all day_ , Merlin sorely wishes he could say. "Care for an afternoon pint instead? I'll buy if you'll put up with me for an hour."

Gwen is a good sport that way, so she follows Merlin into the first bar he can find, some tacky sports-themed place that mostly only first years frequent. They sit in the farthest corner at the tiniest, most out-of-sight table, and when Merlin can do nothing but stare into his glass Gwen finally puts her foot down. Quite literally, on top of Merlin's.

"Ow!" he says.

"Are you going to talk to me or just pass out in your pint with your eyes open?" Gwen demands.

"Sorry," Merlin says. "It's just—it's been a weird couple of days. Week?" _Lifetime._

When he looks up, Gwen is eyeing him in a manner that comes across as both sympathetic and about three seconds away from a smack upside the head. 

"Lance kissed me last night," he blurts.

"He _what?_ " Merlin desperately shushes her and looks around to make sure no one is listening, but it is, of course, 1:40 p.m. in a bar on a weekday, and the place is largely deserted. "When? Where? Did you like it?"

"Outside his halls, around one in the morning, and of course I bloody liked it, have you looked at the man? You'd have to be some kind of asexually reproducing sea slug not to like kissing _that._ "

"Slugs don't reproduce asexually," Gwen says with a dismissive wave, and Merlin takes a moment to hate people studying environmental science. "But seriously—what brought this about? I mean, you've only known each other a few days, right?"

There's no way Merlin can say _More like millenia,_ so he doesn't. But that's only true for his part, anyway. "Right," he says. "And I have no idea why he would be interested in me even if he'd known me all his life, much less a week."

"Stop it." Gwen glares at him for a moment, then turns serious. "But really, Merlin—do you like him? This could be a big thing for you! I mean, it's been since, what—"

"Will," Merlin finishes for her, cringing. He could tell her about that one anonymous, blond footballer-type in a gay bar on a particularly bad bender of a weekend last year, but copping to fucking his only childhood nerd friend is far less embarrassing than copping to fucking an Arthur lookalike. "I know. It's just—I'm not sure yet. What to do. It all feels so tangled up and confused."

Gwen looks pitying now, which Merlin would resent more if he weren't firmly aware of how pitiful he is. "I'm sure it's a lot to take in all of a sudden, Merlin, but . . . well, wouldn't it be nice to try and . . . distract yourself a little?"

She could mean any number of things, but Merlin isn't fooled. Gwen has blissfully never directly addressed Merlin's lifelong, obvious infatuation with her boyfriend, but Merlin has never deluded himself for a second that it's because she doesn't know.

"Yeah," Merlin mutters, dropping his gaze to his beer again. "Maybe."

It's the same question he's been asking himself all night and all day, but the prospect of trying to forget this ever-present truth he's always known with the deepest surety is terrifying. Would he even be the same person anymore, without this hopeless, one-sided adoration of Arthur holding him to the ground? He's often wondered if Before Merlin wouldn't be ashamed of him, wasting this one last chance to be together with Arthur and make it work, before their souls die out for good.

But, Merlin reminds himself stubbornly, it's not _his_ fault this lifetime hasn't been working out. Maybe instead of sitting around miserably wishing for his present and past to change all at once, he's supposed to do something about it.

"He _is_ terribly handsome," Gwen says conspiratorially, giving Merlin a nudge. "Definitely cuter than Gwaine."

"But Gwaine will be so heartbroken," Merlin sighs, even as his mouth twists into a smile.

They finish their pints and head to the football pitch together. Merlin's stomach is already doing nervous somersaults at the sight of Arthur, who is probably still pissed at him for last night, passing the ball to Lance, who—well—Merlin can't think too hard about Lance just yet.

Gwen touches Merlin's arm and says into his ear, "I'll propose we all go out tonight, and then you can get some time with Lance in a group so there's less pressure. How does that sound?"

"Yeah, all right. Thanks," Merlin agrees. Gwen gives his arm a squeeze and then climbs the benches to take her customary seat near the top. Merlin makes for the shed to grab the ice box, rolling up his sleeves.

"You're late, Merlin!" Percy calls. In perfect unison, both Arthur and Lance jerk their heads in his direction. Merlin feels his face go scarlet.

"Sorry, sorry," Merlin calls, which probably makes everyone else on the pitch turn to stare; normally he'd just tell Percy to bugger off. He doesn't know what everyone else on the pitch does, however, because he's too busy trying to hide behind the ice box.

Friday practices are always extra-long, and the air is considerably cooler, the sun considerably lower in the sky by the time the coach tells everyone to call it a night. Merlin packs up the water table and meets Gwen on the benches and they wait, along with a few other girls, for the team to emerge from the showers.

"Here they are!" Gwen says at the first sighting of everyone striding toward them. Arthur's in the lead, and the sight of him walking forward so purposefully, flanked by men, instantly brings to mind some tournament, Arthur wearing armor Merlin helped strap him into. Merlin closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

He doesn't open his eyes again until Gwen says, "Merlin and I were thinking of having a night out with the whole crew! Weren't we, Merlin?"

Merlin looks up to see Arthur watching him, even as he bends down to peck Gwen on the cheek.

"Yeah," Merlin says. 

"We need to give Lance a proper welcome, after all," Gwen adds, peeking around Arthur's shoulder to beam in Lance's direction.

"That's thoughtful of you." Lance smiles in a charming way that makes Merlin's head threaten to fog up again.

"Less talking then, and more drinking!" Gwaine says, and, after briefly throwing out ideas and choosing a destination, a group of nine branch off together.

Lance falls into step beside Merlin almost immediately, and Merlin stuffs his hands in his pockets and tries not to go too flustered—it's the first time he and Lance have made eye contact since the night before, and it's certainly not helping matters that Gwen keeps peering over her shoulder and smirking at them.

"How was practice, then?" Merlin asks.

"Fine," Lance says. "Merlin, I want to apologize, if my behavior last night was at all inappropriate."

"No!" Merlin blurts, burning with humiliation but also maybe a little bit of something nicer. "I just—God, you do cut to the chase quickly, don't you?"

Ahead of them, Merlin could swear he sees Arthur's shoulders tense, his head tilt slightly back, but he's too focused on studying the side of Lance's face to determine if it's his imagination or not. Lance's is a very nice face to study, after all, especially when he seems to be struggling not to smile too broadly.

"Not generally," Lance admits. "It's just—" he trails off then, and it's all Merlin can do to bite his tongue and not shout _What? Just what?_ , but he's glad he waited when Lance finally concludes, "I feel like I've known you for a long time."

Merlin ducks his head and smiles, tight-lipped, at his feet. 

"I know that sounds strange," Lance says.

"No, I feel the same way," Merlin says. Lance looks relieved, and the rest of the walk passes in silence, Merlin constantly forcing himself to stay in the present instead of in some long-ago nighttime walk through the forest.

By some miracle, they find a booth big enough to seat the entire group at the pub, and thanks to some quick thinking on Gwen's part ("Gwaine, Merlin's had quite enough of you molesting him publicly for a while, you sit by Elyan."), Merlin ends up between Arthur and Lance. 

"I'll grab the first round; I'm on the end," Lance says, and Percy, the other end, volunteers to go with him.

The table goes quiet; beside him, Arthur is still tense and grouchy, refusing to acknowledge Merlin to a point that's getting awkward, so Merlin decides to take the opportunity to make amends.

"Arthur," he says, fighting not to roll his eyes when Arthur lifts his eyebrows and very slowly turns Merlin's way. "Sorry about last night, mate. You're right; I'm a bitch when I'm drunk."

It takes a few seconds, but some of the friendliness bleeds back into Arthur's face. "You can say that again," he says snippily, but Merlin knows that's just Arthur for _Oh all right then._

The first round of beer goes down quickly and everyone is in good spirits, pleased to have made it to the weekend at last. Merlin and Lance happily pick up where they left off with conversation the night before, and there are several rounds of darts and an unexpected game of Kings when Percy unveils a deck of cards. Before he knows it, Merlin has surpassed his usual state of drunk-but-not-too-drunk and is well into the realm of absolutely-and-completely-hammered. 

"Nine—rhyme?" Merlin clarifies, frowning at the number on his card. "Uh, all right, how about: 'verbally.'" He grins cheekily at Lance, who's next in line. "You may as well just take a drink now, there's no rhyming that."

"'Hyperbole,'" Lance says thoughtfully, and it's probably not that wonderful of a rhyme in all honesty, but Merlin's mouth drops open in awe nonetheless.

"You're amazing," he says, and Lance flashes him a gratified look before turning to laugh with the rest of them at Percy, who just knocks his pint back rather than try.

When Merlin happens to set his sights to his other side, he's surprised to see Arthur giving Lance a death glare. Gwen also seems to have noticed, judging by the way she's studying the back of Arthur's head curiously. 

"Fancy a game of darts, Lance?" Arthur says, too loud and out of absolutely nowhere. Merlin, like a child, stares wide-eyed first at Arthur, then at Lance, and back again.

"Uh." Lance furrows his brow, in the middle of reaching into the mess of cards to select one for himself, but seems unable to refuse. "Sure, okay." He slides out of the booth, and after Arthur elbows him in the ribs Merlin follows suit, trailing after the pair of them helplessly as they make their way to the nearest available darts board. Merlin chances one look back at the table to see if anyone has noticed the abrupt exit, but the only one looking is Gwen, whose troubled expression quickly fades into a smile of encouragement. She gives him the thumbs up, and he smiles weakly back before facing the board.

"You play a good game," Arthur says, handing Lance his darts and stepping back behind the line. Merlin wonders if this statement perplexes Lance as much as it does him.

"Sorry," Lance says, "what are we talking about?" Merlin breathes a little sigh of relief.

"Football," Arthur clarifies.

"Thank you," Lance says, obviously still wary. 

Arthur throws the first dart, and it lands just to the right of bull. Merlin's never really understood scoring for this game, but he's pretty sure that's good. Lance steps in and takes the next throw, mirroring Arthur's spot almost exactly on the left side. When Arthur throws next, Merlin half expects his to split Lance's dart down the middle, but it goes a bit wider this time.

"You two seem to be getting on well," Arthur says, a little quieter, and it takes Merlin a moment to realize it's directed at him.

"Oh!" he says. "Lance and me? Well, yeah—" he watches as Lance lines up for his next throw. "He's nice."

"Be careful, there," Arthur says, lowering his voice so that only Merlin can hear him. 

Merlin goes tense, not lowering his voice in the slightest when he says, "What? What are you talking about?"

Arthur seems flustered, and it makes his next throw go incredibly wide. He curses and steps back, waiting for Lance to step up before going on. "I'm only looking out for you," he says, hushed. "You don't know anything about him. What's a guy like Lance doing cozying up to somebody like you?"

It feels as if Merlin's been slapped. He stands up from the stool he's precariously perched himself on and hisses, "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Come on, Merlin," Arthur says, laughing a little, although there's no humor in it. By this point, Lance seems to have noticed something's amiss; he stands frozen on the line with the next dart suspended in his hand, frowning at both of them. "I mean, look at him! He could be on the cover of a bloody magazine."

"Look at me, you mean," Merlin says, slamming his stool underneath the nearest table. "Jesus, you really are a fucking prick, aren't you?"

Arthur doesn't try to stop him when Merlin stalks off, past their booth without so much as a word of goodbye, ignoring the calls of Gwen and several others as he storms out the door. The cool night air feels good on his overheated skin and he's glad for it as he sets off toward the halls at a brisk pace, trying wildly to calm down. 

He's hurt because Arthur insulted him, of course. It always hurts to be so jarringly reminded of how low Arthur's esteem for him really is, but there's something more than that tonight. A flash comes swirling into him from behind, and Merlin braces himself against it, wishing he could block it out: Lance and Gwen, all furtive glances and hushed conversations; something he's recalled from the beginning but tried to dismiss. 

"Merlin!" It's Lance who comes jogging after him from behind, which pisses Merlin off to no end. Because isn't that just so perfectly Arthur, to make a mess but leave someone else to come and clean it up for him?

"What do you think of Gwen?" Merlin demands, whirling on Lance with such ferocity that Lance looks, in a word, terrified.

"What?" he says.

"Are you only interested in me because you're trying to forget about someone else?" 

He feels uncomfortable the moment he asks it, not just because it's entirely out of left field but because it's maybe more than a little bit hypocritical. But he can't help but wonder; Lance might not remember like he does, but not remembering hasn't stopped Arthur from choosing Gwen over Merlin again, and if Lance is going to be secretly in love with her too, Merlin needs to know about it now, not later.

"Wait. I'm sorry. _What?_ "

Merlin wilts under the dawning knowledge that he's being unfair, on top of just being ridiculous. "I'm sorry," he says, dropping down to sit on the curb and running his hands through his hair. "It's been a long. Well. Life, really."

Lance drops down next to him and snorts. "Well, that's a bit melodramatic." Merlin doesn't say anything at all, so Lance, probably at a loss, changes subjects. "Arthur. What a dick."

"I'm immune," Merlin lies, and he's the one who leans in to kiss Lance this time, slow and searching, uncaring if the entire campus or even Arthur himself sees.

 

The next day, Lance invites him out to dinner. A real date, probably the first official one Merlin's ever had, and he buzzes with nerves and excitement for hours leading up to it, trying but failing horribly to do any of his homework. Since Lance doesn't know the campus well yet, Merlin picks the restaurant, an all-vegetarian curry place he craves daily, and just before leaving he texts Gwen a grainy phone picture of him in front of the mirror. 

_does this look ok for a date at masala??_ he asks. He spent an embarrassingly lengthy amount of time stressing over finding the right balance between too casual and too dressy.

 _perfect!_ , she replies, not long after. _have a wonderful time._

It's a little less enthusiastic than Merlin was expecting, but he shrugs it off, pockets his phone, and sets out a full fifteen minutes earlier than he needs to. When he gets there, Lance is early, too. They look at each other and laugh, mutually embarrassed, until Lance pulls the door open and Merlin ducks inside, flushed and tripping over his thanks.

Merlin advises Lance on what's good, and once the orders have been put in he finds himself completely at a loss for conversation. He sits and wrings his hands, finally glancing up to find Lance watching him, eyes shining with amusement.

"I'm sorry," Merlin says quickly. "I haven't really—that is, this is actually my first. Kind of. Date?" He's so mortified as soon as he confesses it that he wants to bolt from the table, but Lance stops him with a quiet laugh.

"I haven't had too many, myself," he says. "Relax. We can talk about _Star Trek_ some more, if you like."

"Nothing more romantic than that," Merlin says, quirking his lips into a tiny smile, but he does relax, and starts to enjoy the evening. He doesn't even slop curry all over himself or drop his cutlery while they eat, which currently feels like his greatest life accomplishment to date.

"Tell me more about what you were doing before transferring here," Merlin says, once they've split the bill diplomatically and moved on to a pub for a drink. 

Lance laughs. "I played football a lot," he says. "And studied, and drank some, and was very generally a hermit." He looks startlingly handsome when he gazes off into the distance and talks wistfully, Merlin notes. "Honestly, even though I just got here, it feels like things are falling into place now. Like I was always meant to come."

 _Like you've found the people you're destined to spend your life with_ , Merlin thinks, resting his chin in his hand. The thought is both reassuring and troublesome, somehow, and Merlin frowns as he tries to sort out what seems off about it.

"You'll really like Arthur, when you get to know him," he says unthinkingly, recalling Lancelot's and Arthur's easy comradery, the mutual respect and allegiance that always so awed Merlin about all the knights. "And everyone else on the team, and Gwen."

When he looks up, Lance is frowning at him with real concern, and Merlin immediately shrinks. "What?" he says.

"Explain it to me, Merlin," Lance says, "because I can't understand. What is this hold he's got over you? Why do you forgive him so much?"

It's the most terrifying thing Merlin can ever remember being asked. He takes a long drink from his glass, using it as an excuse to organize his thoughts, and maybe because he's got a bit of a buzz going on, or maybe because Lance is the first person he's ever met who seems to almost _get it_ , he goes with the most honest answer he can.

"It feels like," Merlin says slowly, "my whole life—from the very beginning, from before the beginning—I've been destined to be with him. I mean," he scrambles, aware of the weighted choice of words, "to be at his side. Like until I met him I was just waiting, and no matter how hard I try, no matter what happens, I can't shake him, because he has to be there. Something's missing otherwise, and even when he's awful, even when it's painful to be around him, it'd be worse if he weren't there. I wouldn't be a whole person."

He trails off, and wishes right away he could stuff all the words back down his throat; it was too much, too true, and Lance _has_ to know now, if he didn't already. Lance, however, appears to be lost in thought more than he is angry or accusatory. His eyes are cloudy and distant and he seems to be considering Merlin's words very, very carefully.

"I understand," he says, quite a while later, after emptying his pint. Merlin should be relieved, but it sounds too sad, the way Lance says it. 

He reaches over to touch Lance's shoulder. "D'you want to—" Merlin starts.

"I'll walk you to your halls," Lance interrupts him. Merlin doesn't know what that's code for at the end of a date, if it's a good sign or bad, so he just says "Oh" and hurriedly polishes off his beer.

It's dark but not later than 11 when they leave the pub, and Merlin struggles to keep up with Lance's strides all the way to his halls. They don't speak once. 

"I have coffee?" Merlin offers once they reach the front doors, shyly. 

Lance smiles, but it feels hollow. "Great," he says. 

Merlin never even gets around to heating the water. As soon as he's opened and closed the door to his room the space feels too narrow, too charged. He turns around and Lance is right there, and at precisely the same moment they move toward each other, Merlin's skin on fire and his brain working far too quickly to keep up with. He pulls Lance in by the hem of his shirt and Lance cups Merlin's face in his hands again, and when they kiss it's entirely different from the first two times. This time is messy and heated and, Merlin can't help but admit, a little forced, desperate.

"Damn it," Lance mutters against Merlin's lips, which Merlin responds to by rocking forward on his feet to deepen the kiss, clutching at him so they don't topple over in the middle of the room. Lance licks Merlin's mouth open and the sound of it is so obscene it makes Merlin's stomach ache. He knows with absolute certainty that if he lets go he'll never get the moment back again, so he keeps trying to hold on tighter and tighter, hands sliding up Lance's back, fisting in the fabric of his shirt. 

It might have gone on forever, but Lance pulls back with no warning, his hands still tender and hot on Merlin's face and neck, his lips close enough that Merlin can almost taste his words.

"God, Merlin," Lance says, his eyes closed, his face twisted and unhappy. Merlin wants to make the sadness go away but doesn't fully understand it, feels powerless to do anything but clutch at Lance and breathe hard. "It might have worked, you know."

"What," Merlin starts, but Lance cuts him off with a sharp shake of the head.

"Leave it," Lance says urgently, and he kisses Merlin once more, hard enough that Merlin whimpers into his mouth, before taking a full step back. Merlin's hands drop to his sides and he feels cold, bereft.

"Thank you for the lovely evening," Lance says. Then, without another word, he slips out the door and closes it gently behind him.

"Fuck," Merlin exhales, sitting down heavily on his bed, and he falls asleep a long time later, lost and frustrated, as far from finding an answer as he is from identifying what the question is.

 

Merlin jolts awake when it's still black outside, blinking blearily at his alarm clock in some surprise, reading the numbers _3:22_ without really comprehending them. At first he thinks it's a Before nightmare that's jarred him out of sleep, but he can't recall any details, and then the pounding comes on his door, loud and relentless. He jerks out of bed and stumbles forward to unbolt the lock, too dazed to even check through the peephole first.

"Arthur?" he says, weakly. 

Arthur doesn't move for a beat, and then he shoulders his way into the room, obviously unsteady on his feet. Merlin hesitates, locks the door behind him, and finally darts to his bedside table to turn on the less abrasive light. They both blink against its brightness anyway, mutually disoriented. Arthur appears for a moment as if he's going to turn around and bolt.

"Arthur," Merlin repeats, stepping forward. 

"How was your date?" Arthur asks.

Merlin bristles, freezes in place. "How did you—"

"I read Gwen's text." Arthur offers the information like it's nothing at all.

"What the hell!" Merlin exclaims, but Arthur just pushes forward until Merlin's legs are backed against the bed frame, grabs fistfuls of Merlin's shirt collar. 

"Shut up," Arthur says, slow, like he's exhausted. "Just. Shut up."

Merlin doesn't move. He couldn't, even if he wanted to; the flashes hit him hard and fast, like a migraine. They're overwhelming and blinding in their intensity, almost more real to him now than the feel of Arthur's chest pressed close to his, the smell of alcohol on Arthur's breath. It's like a montage of every moment he and Before Arthur ever shared, but all at once: brushes of hands against shoulders; playful teasing; a few quiet confessions that unfolded with inevitable surety, like a story book. Cold kisses on winter mornings, Merlin crawling into the warmth of Arthur's bed; fucking hot and fast in a tent, an armor room, against the stone wall of Arthur's chambers, rarely saying anything even though the words were always on the tip of Merlin's tongue; quick hints of understated tenderness, like Arthur darting in front of him in battle, never even realizing Merlin was the one protecting him, in the end.

"Oh God," Merlin says—in this lifetime, he registers belatedly. Arthur presses their foreheads together, so hard it hurts, and it feels so familiar, there's no way it can be the first time.

"Merlin," Arthur chokes out, his eyes closed tight. He lifts his hands to tangle them in Merlin's hair, and it makes Merlin want to cry, the way they go right for the nape of his neck. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." These words are expected, but Merlin finds he's forgotten how to breathe when Arthur finishes with, "I fucking love you."

Arthur crushes Merlin's mouth beneath his, which is just as well, because Merlin needs someone else's breath right now, someone else's guidance. He feels utterly lost to do anything but try to keep up, mimicking Arthur's hands to run his own, cautious at first but increasingly confident, through Arthur's hair. It's soft and inviting under his fingers, and Arthur's mouth opens in an easy, comfortable way, and when Arthur groans Merlin follows close behind him. He's not expecting Arthur's hips to grind so urgently against his, not expecting the hardness there, the desperate hitch when Merlin hesitantly rolls his own hips back. 

"I want," Arthur tries, then licks his lips, breathes, tries again. "I've wanted—" He seems to grow impatient with words, and with a low noise in the back of his throat he whirls Merlin around, slams him against the wall hard enough that the wind gets knocked out of him.

" _Fuck_ ," Merlin hisses. He lets Arthur suck urgently at his neck, tilts his head back to make it easier even as his legs part to make room for Arthur's insistent thigh. The thought of Arthur leaving a mark on him turns Merlin on so much that he moans out loud, and the sound is filthy to his ears. Arthur must agree, because he lifts Merlin by the hips then, forces him to ride Arthur's thigh rough and fast, and Merlin knows he can't last long, neither of them can, it's going to be over with almost as suddenly as it began.

"Arthur," Merlin says, wrapping his arm possessively around the back of Arthur's head, breathing deep into his hair. This is when Arthur stops moving, all at once. For a moment they just hover like that, and then Arthur jerks back, like he's been badly scared. 

"I," Arthur says, lowering himself slowly to his knees on the floor. "Think I'm going to."

Merlin credits himself that he comprehends as quickly as he does, with the way his heart is beating wild in his throat, and he moves like a man possessed. "Here, here," he says softly, fetching his rubbish bin and dropping down to rub circles into Arthur's back. "It's okay. You're okay, Arthur."

He keeps rubbing as Arthur retches endlessly into the bin, occasionally brushing the sweat-soaked hair away from his forehead. It seems like a thousand years before Arthur is finally spent, making a sound that rings suspiciously like a sob as he shoves the bin away. He presses his head against Merlin's chest, pitiful, and Merlin helps lift him up by the armpits, leads him to the bed.

"Rinse," he instructs, holding a glass of water to Arthur's lips. Arthur sucks in a mouthful, spits into Merlin's dirty coffee mug; sucks in another mouthful, swallows. 

They fall asleep—Arthur in bed, Merlin on the floor next to him—without another word. If Merlin dreams, he doesn't remember at all.

 

The first text Merlin reads, when he wakes up at 9:40 the next morning and grapples blindly for his phone, is from Gwen.

_arthur and i broke up last night. don't want you to feel awkward but thought you ought to know._

Merlin jerks up and checks his bed, but Arthur is still there, snoring lightly and glowering in sleep. The timeline doesn't make sense in Merlin's head; he texts Gwen back, fingers moving rapidly, stomach twisting up with guilt.

_when? i'm sorry, i don't know what to say_

_over dinner. i dumped him, really, I suppose._

His mouth tastes dry when he keys back, terrified of the answer, _why?_

For an endless, painful stretch, his phone doesn't buzz at all. And then it comes:

_he doesn't love me. i don't think i love him. it all just feels wrong, somehow._

Merlin doesn't know if it's a relief or not, but he's strangely calm when he replies. _i'm so sorry. we'll figure it all out. you're wonderful._

 _take care of him right now_ , is the last text Gwen sends, and Merlin doesn't know how to respond, so he doesn't.

Next, he reads an unopened message from Lance:

_I'd love to talk, whenever you're awake._

They arrange to meet at the embankment by the river in half an hour and Merlin rises, struggling to pull on his clothes, marveling at the sight of Arthur, sleeping thick and undisturbed throughout all of it. He can't leave like this, so he tears out a sheet of notebook paper and scrawls a message for him, which he leaves on the bedside table, just inches from Arthur's head.

_I'll be back soon. Please don't go._

Then he's out the door and walking brisk in the dreary morning air, the first hints of an Autumn chill making the hair raise on his neck. No flashes accost him on the way, and he feels strangely at peace and levelheaded, although logically he knows he should be in a panic. Nothing makes sense and everything is completely fucked, but it feels a lot closer to right than it ever has before.

"Hey," Merlin says, coming to a stop just behind Lance. Lance turns to face him and doesn't smile, not even falsely. 

"Merlin, I need to tell you something."

"First," Merlin says, desperate to get the confession out. "First, I—Arthur came to my room last night, after you left. And he kissed me, and I let him, and I'm sorry but." The words die on his tongue and Lance doesn't react, doesn't flinch, doesn't acknowledge the news in any immediate way.

"Of course," he says at length, softly, almost as if to himself. Then, clearer, "Merlin, I remember."

"You remember?" Merlin repeats. He knows but doesn't feel like it can be right; maybe he's asleep still, and for once it's the present haunting his dreams.

Lance looks endlessly tired when he elaborates, "Everything. Like you. From before."

There's nothing Merlin can do other than gape at him, because his synapses seem to have collapsed. "How?" he croaks, mouth running on autopilot.

Lance shrugs. "No idea." He looks sorry when he meets Merlin's eyes, but Merlin's not sure if it's apologetic or just well-earned self-pity. "I always thought, when I found her, it'd be our second chance. But when I saw you, it was like—all at once, like—I remembered some happiness, something that worked." His voice is so quiet when he adds, "There wasn't a lot of happiness for me and her, Merlin. It was all so hopeless and unintended."

"I thought," Merlin begins, after Lance has been quiet for a while, "forever, I thought this time would just be exactly the same. But then when I saw you, it seemed like there was a different option. A new chance."

"To find happiness this time," Lance affirms, with a quiet nod. Then his smile returns, and it's so clearly, horribly genuine. "But you still can."

"That's not fair," Merlin says, swallowing thickly. "For you, it's not—"

"Don't be stupid, Merlin." Lance waves him off. "I'm not going to float away burning. There are options left."

Merlin is fighting very hard to maintain control of his voice now. "Gwen dumped him, last night. Maybe . . . ?" It feels too cheap to say out loud, so he just goes quiet, face burning.

Lance reaches out and musses Merlin's hair, an expression so fond Merlin wants to drown himself. "Don't bother, Merlin. I'll see you at football, all right?"

Merlin nods, but can't make his feet move, even though this is obviously goodbye. After too long, he lurches forward and wraps his arms tight around Lance's chest, hugs him because he's terrified, for some reason, that this is the last time they'll ever meet. 

"Go," Lance says, quietly against his ear, and he gives Merlin one rough squeeze, and Merlin goes.

 

It takes several minutes, and every ounce of Merlin's courage, to make himself open his own door. For the longest time he just hovers outside, heart pounding, like this is the final test, something both he and Arthur have yet to pass. When he turns the knob, it's unlocked, and his sigh of relief is audible once he finds Arthur still there, face buried in his hands, sitting miserably on the edge of Merlin's bed.

"Merlin?" Arthur says, lifting his head slowly. The expression on his face is so fearful that Merlin wants nothing more than to rush forward, to kiss the lines out of his forehead.

"Hi," he forces himself to say instead. He closes the door and crosses the room at a careful pace, taking a seat at Arthur's side, their legs just touching.

Arthur is more stiff and tense than Merlin has ever seen him, so he lifts a hand and strokes it very slowly up and down over his back. The way Arthur melts into him is the best feeling Merlin's found in months, a warmth that washes over him like summer air.

"I've really messed everything up," Arthur says, his voice weak and wrecked.

Merlin considers this. "Me too," he says. "But I think it can all be fixed." No relief registers on Arthur's face, so Merlin adds, "Stop being so miserable and sorry, please? I hardly recognize you when you're not all priggish and self-satisfied."

Arthur's frown cracks. "You love it," he says.

"Of course I do," Merlin says.

The flash comes as a surprise, probably because this is the most firmly rooted Merlin has felt in Now for as long as he can remember. It's a quiet memory, just him and Arthur, a little older than they are today, standing side-by-side on one of the castle turrets under a bright sun. But now he recognizes it: just a few days after Merlin finally told him about the magic, the intertwined destiny, two sides of the same coin, all of it.

"Can't believe I'm stuck with you as my miserable companion until the day I die," Arthur grumbled, struggling to maintain a glower that kept threatening to split.

"How do you think I've felt, knowing secretly all this time?" Merlin asked. "It's been a terrible burden to bear alone."

They leaned into each other at the same time, Merlin resting his head on top of Arthur's, for barely a second; just as long as they could allow it. Merlin closed his eyes, and opens them, back to Now again.

"Merlin?" Arthur is watching him nervously, like Merlin is about to disappear. 

"I'm not going anywhere," Merlin assures him, and for maybe the first time ever, when Arthur smiles, it seems like he knows exactly what Merlin means.


End file.
